Jack, back home, the roots go deep

    Jack Chang opened his eyes, and for a minute he was back in time.  When he was a teenager, and dreaded having to go downstairs and face his father.

     His old man hated the fact Jack was not bound for the tradional role of oldest son taking over the family business.  The world may have changed radically the last hundred years, but not some traditions.

       Jack sighed, the old man had died when he and his little family moved to the desert, and he was wandering to scrap together enough money to get the supplies to get them to the winter.  Him and
Charlie. 

       Charlie was still snoring over in the other bed.  The kid Charles was up and out of the room.

       Jack supposed he should get up, and slowly rolled over to the edge.  The beds hadn't changed in all the years, older than he was.  Maybe new beds were hard to come by.  Or just his family still  being frugal, stretching what they had to take care of everyone in the large extended group.

        Well, didn't all of us.  I had to learn to stretch money, only a bottle of cheap whisky in the early days when no matter how hard I worked at my craft, I still couldn't pull a solid gold rabbit out of the hat.  Something to at least share with old rusty saw over there, and have a few laughs.

        He sat up, laughs now, may as well get up and go have some family time down stairs, with my pleasantly standoffish brother and his family. 

         Standing up and trying to not wake the other man was hard.  His joints all felt like they
 had rocks in them.  Not surprising after the long walk they had done. 

         And here he was hat in hand asking for help to find a boat.  Things were lacking a reality
and reason he was trying hard to find hope in.